July, and the weeds are thick with field mice.  Thick with shadows moving just beyond the perimeter of sight. At night, we gather our blankets and wait at the edge. Wait for fireworks on the eastern horizon to spark against the dark that swallows everything. The house, the driveway, the rusted ford.  For everything to vanish then reappear suddenly and entirely new. Summer shakes itself free every time, and every time, we lose our way back to our beds.  Back to our pasts, the gravel road that leads us there forked and vanishing beneath bare feet.

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My brother is born in a storm. Born in the middle of a field, my mother alone and halfway to Centralia and crowning too soon. A hundred black cows watching from the fence.  A hundred yards from t...

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